


Punch My Ballot Just Right and I Might Soon Be Incumbent

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22629337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Hilda and Zelda campaign against each other for the position of county coroner.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	Punch My Ballot Just Right and I Might Soon Be Incumbent

As soon as the body hits the slab, wheels are turning in both their brains, and their eyes meet in the fluorescence. They both are having the same thought and they both know it and they’re both pretending not to be thinking that or knowing that.

Zelda tosses her hair, and Hilda clears her throat, and that’s the closest they’ll get to acknowledging anything for now. They silently take up their positions and get to work—assembly-line precision, well-practiced and in perfect synchronization.

The body is cleaned, and they’re trading off removing organs when they’ve relaxed a bit and Hilda has started whistling tunelessly.

As Zelda would’ve put money on, just as she’s getting into her rhythm she feels tendrils of Hilda’s magic scratching at her cranium. It’s the dirtiest trick in the book. So Zelda executes the second dirtiest trick in the book and opens her mind just a tad and thinks very purposefully and loudly about Hilda being engaged in the nastiest sex act she can dream up at short notice—whips and chains and leather and lewd, desperate moaning. The tendrils hop away in a burst of palpable energy—a little sharp static electric shock at Zelda’s hairline. And Zelda looks up to find Hilda splotchy—blushing everywhere visible and probably not visible besides—her eyes cast embarrassedly toward the electric bone saw on the table across the room.

“You never learn your lesson,” Zelda says.

“Oh shut up,” Hilda says.

xxx

The corpse is done except for a few minor finishing touches to be applied just before the wake tomorrow evening, and Hilda’s taking a pan of swiss steak from the oven. It’s Sabrina’s favorite, and the girl has just made the varsity junior high soccer team as a sixth grader. So it’s a little celebration. Hilda has pointedly not made the Boston cream pie that usually accompanies this dish because that’s Zelda’s favorite. In fact, she’s made blackberry cobbler, which she knows annoys Zelda because she can’t stop herself from eating it because it’s delicious but the seeds get stuck in her teeth uncomfortably. The fact is, Hilda is still cross with her. She’ll probably continue to be cross with her for a while. 

They’d discarded their respective nitrile gloves and washed up and changed clothes two hours ago. And Zelda had rushed herself through her usual routine so she could immediately monopolize the telephone, making call after call, using her best charming and non-threateningly flirtatious voice to cajole and convince the several whoevers she had rung.

“So sorry for your loss.”

“Yes this is Zelda Spellman.”

“I am more than competent.”

“It’s a lot of responsibility, but I am uniquely qualified for the position.”

“Serving my community is my passion.”

Hilda hadn’t had to eavesdrop because Zelda had been talking at a volume meant to be heard.

The body on their table that morning had been the previous county coroner, and now there would be a special election for a replacement.

As Hilda had bustled around to fix dinner, she had—very deliberately on Zelda’s part—heard just how avid Zelda had been to obtain a nomination and general support.

But Zelda wasn’t the only mortician in town with a political itch, and the quickness of Zelda’s campaigning had shown she had known she should get in front of it.

There was still time. The election wouldn’t be for another month, and Hilda knew she was more well known in the community, more well liked, too. A pillar with a lot of club memberships and a very secret and very popular key lime pie recipe.

Still, though. There’s a lot to be said for concise and exactly calculated politicking. It’s a dirty trick. Maybe third in line of all dirty tricks. Regardless of numerical placement, it’s a dirty trick, and it has left Hilda cross.

xxx

Hilda’s in line to send off a package of homemade jam to a friend in Boise and additionally buy a book of stamps at the post office when she scans her surroundings and suddenly sees a full-color poster pinned to the cork board of a smiling Zelda with a sans serif caption proclaiming her, “Your Best Choice for County Coroner.”

xxx

Zelda’s in line to buy a carton of cigarettes and a head of red cabbage at the grocery store when she scans her surroundings and suddenly sees a full-color poster pinned to the cork board of a smiling Hilda with a serif font proclaiming her, “The County Coroner You Deserve.”

xxx

Hilda’s in her best dress, knocking on residential doors, conducting her own little straw poll as she hands out small packages of homemade cookies in cellophane tied with pretty organza bows. She’s disheartened to learn that most citizens don’t even know that they’re supposed to vote for county coroner, had just assumed it was a position with the state police filled by a reserved doctor of some sort. They’ve mostly been reluctant to pledge support to a pretty and bubbly mortician. 

When Hilda returns, she pulls her Bonneville up next to the Cadillac hearse, already halfway to incensed. She takes a lap around the beast, inspecting how it’s been tricked out. A banner on each side with a Zorro-esque flaming Z and “Your Best Choice for County Coroner.” A big antique megaphone has been mounted to the roof.

She stomps into the kitchen, where Zelda is sitting smoking a cigarette and leafing through a local used car weekly. Zelda looks up at her, smug, says,

“Campaigning?” Hilda scowls and crosses to the liquor cabinet, pours herself a stiff whiskey. Zelda laughs and says, “While you’ve been wearing out your shoes in Greendale, I’ve been working smart and have hit six surrounding towns. It is a county election, after all. I swear, sister. Think big picture.” Hilda downs her drink, turns, says,

“Towns! You’re bluffing. Maybe three unincorporated townships, if you were lucky!” 

Zelda scoffs, raises her eyebrows, says,

“Let she who has talked to more than thirty people today cast the first stone.”

Hilda deposits her tumbler in the sink and ties on an apron, starts cataloguing what she’ll do for dinner. Zelda’s still watching her intently. Zelda watches her rummaging around in the freezer and then says,

“Would you like to up the stakes a bit?”

Hilda is listening but pretending not to be. She reaches up to the top cupboard to retrieve the flour and hums noncommittally. Zelda continues: 

“Perhaps a side wager?”

Hilda turns.

“As if you don’t pillage my sock drawer to go to the races already,” Hilda says.

“Not money. Something… different,” Zelda says.

“I’m listening, but that’s not a certified yes.”

Zelda stubs out her cigarette and sashays around the island. She stands behind Hilda and places her hands on Hilda’s hips and waits for Hilda to quit fussing with her ingredients and pay attention to her fully. When Hilda has stilled her movements and arched back into her and inclined her ear to Zelda’s mouth, Zelda says,

“I want you to attend a Church of Night orgy with me.” Hilda stiffens at that but then relaxes again, says,

“Good thing you’re going to lose. You’re going to just love being a judge at the Miss Elderly Greendale competition and then taking me out to a nice dinner at that vegetarian bistro in Riverdale afterward.”

Zelda chuckles into Hilda’s ear and then licks the shell of it.

“How about a detente for tonight?” She’s now kissing Hilda’s neck below the ear. Hilda bucks her hips but says,

“One night only. And you can’t keep me up too late. I have things to do tomorrow morning.”

xxx

Hilda’s not so great at one night only, as it turns out.

Zelda had kept her part of the bargain and they’d both gotten to sleep before midnight.

But after Hilda’s morning meetings with the bridge club and at the VFW where she’d laid out her platform and garnered some positive reactions, she’d been rather keyed up. 

So by the time lunch rolls around and Zelda’s eating a homemade pickle over the sink, Hilda’s standing a few paces away, original plan having been to open the refrigerator and search for something to cobble together, but she’s distracted by Zelda in her tight dress and her open mouth. She realizes too late that she’s been staring.

“What? You want one?” Zelda says around the last bite. Hilda’s beside her now at the sink.

“How’d this last batch turn out? I wasn’t sure.”

“As good as always,” Zelda says.

“Not too salty?” Hilda takes Zelda’s wrist gently but firmly and guides the fingers that had just had the pickle in them into her mouth. She sucks at the residual brine and then licks delicately as she releases. She’s still got Zelda’s wrist in her grip, though. “No, just right, I think.”

Zelda’s other hand is white-knuckled against the edge of the sink. She takes a steadying breath, says,

“Whatever happened to our one-night-only truce?” Hilda drags her thumb over tendons and veins, hums, says,

“I’d taken that to mean twenty four hours. And by my count we’ve got another six or so.” Zelda narrows her eyes.

“We were both campaigning this morning.”

“So we’ve got ten hours to go, then.” Zelda laughs and pulls the hand that’s still under Hilda’s control toward her, effectively bringing Hilda with it. She encircles Hilda’s waist with the other and says,

“Exploiting loopholes. Maybe you are a better politician than I am after all.”

xxx

Ambrose is wearing a sport coat and conservative tie and Sabrina’s still in her school uniform when Zelda descends the stairs for dinner. They’re sitting together in the parlor looking stiff and formal and on their best behavior. Alarm bells.

Zelda had spent most of the afternoon being fucked nearly unconscious and now she’s suspicious that it had been just another chess move rather than a luxurious respite. If what she suspects is happening is actually happening, it’s a dirty trick. Maybe top five dirty tricks. She hides behind the bannister and cranes her neck. She barely discerns several unknown figures in suits. Definitely guests, and from the information she currently has, important ones. She goes back upstairs to change.

xxx

“Have I ever been a part of a murder investigation?” Hilda laughs. “As a suspect or as an investigator?” The whole cadre of people gathered at the dining table laugh.

Hilda’s in a slate gray tweed skirt suit. It’s outdated but well-cut, and instead of one of the ostentatious, colorful brooches she usually prefers, there’s an American flag lapel pin. She’s veritably holding court with these three familiar just-on-the-tip-of-Zelda’s tongue couples and Sabrina and Ambrose, all enthralled with her.

Aperitifs and a charcuterie board are already on the table, but not much is gone. Zelda figures she’s not too late. She steadies herself at the doorway, tries to get all of her eye rolling out of her system. And then she enters.

But it’s really more like slinking. She might as well be sewn in to the emerald green silk. It’s too much for the occasion but exactly enough to turn everyone’s head.

Hilda gapes for a moment and then,

“So glad you could join us.”

The man to her right, in a navy three-piece suit, says,

“Worth the wait.” The woman on his other side slaps him lightly on the bicep and looks embarrassed about at least three different items at once.

Hilda’s confidence has been shaken slightly, but she attempts to recover by introducing everyone.

Navy three piece suit is county clerk. Maroon cocktail dress is school board president. Gold and black lace cocktail dress is district attorney. 

Zelda makes eye contact with each in turn and then takes a sip of her aperitif, says,

“Hello and welcome. I suppose Hilda has already given you a tour of the facilities?”

“Before dinner?” Hilda says. “Might be a bit off-putting…”

“Oh I’m sure they know why they’re here,” Zelda says, overly sweet. “Politics isn’t for those with weak stomachs.”

The district attorney looks straight at Zelda as she eats a slice of salami, says,

“Exactly right, Mrs. Spellman.” She wipes her fingers on her napkin and continues with a smirk, “Although my wife would have my hide if I ever tried to run against her in an election.” The woman in black crepe next to her rolls her eyes and says,

“What would I even do with your hide? You’re too skinny to make a decent teepee.”

Everyone laughs. Everyone but Hilda, whose color has drained as she registers just how likeable Zelda can make herself when she tries.

xxx

Finger foods and soup had been pretty solidly won by Zelda. Hilda chalks it up to the novelty of her—the gorgeous, obnoxious novelty of her. She’d had trouble not looking at her herself. Hilda had picked up during the salad course and has made a strong showing for the entree. They’re neck and neck for the fish course. But Hilda’s had so much to drink. Wine and water both, and she must excuse herself although it’s an almost certain forfeiture. 

But as she’s washing her hands, Zelda appears.

“I’m a lot of things, Hildie, but I’m not a bad sport.”

Zelda presses against her, encourages her onto the counter, says,

“It’s only fair that we should have an equal amount of time to charm these people.” Her hands slip under the hem of Hilda’s skirt. “It’s only fair that you should be as sex-muddled as I had been coming into it.” She latches her mouth to Hilda’s neck and strokes her hands up her thighs.

“Only fair,” Hilda pants.

xxx

A lot of knowing looks as they return to the table after way too long in the ladies’ room. They take their respective places at head and foot and resume their various flirting and cajoling and politicking.

It’s still tied up tight at after-dinner drinks.

The school board president takes a drink of her grasshopper, says,

“Have either of you performed a formal autopsy?”

Tense glances, questioning and expectant.

All this rigamarole for a stalemate.

xxx

At breakfast after Sabrina’s left:

“It’s just not fair. You haven’t even offered to have a Lincoln-Douglas debate!” Hilda says.

Zelda rolls her eyes, says,

“Really, sister. In what universe would the candidates for county coroner waste their time and money holding a debate that exactly five people would attend? You’re living in a fantasy world. A fantasy world in which fantasy number one is your having a chance to win this election, might I add.”

xxx

Six hundred forty seven people cast their votes in the special election for county coroner.

Five hundred and five of which couldn’t remember which Spellman they had liked better so had just voted for the third candidate to be safe.

xxx

The election results roll in on the am farm station they often listen to. But they’re not listening now. They’re rolling around in bed, giving and taking and enjoying, tentative celebrations on both sides with tongues and teeth and fingers.

Zelda’s head on Hilda’s chest, listening mostly to slowing heartbeats as the radio murmurs in the background.

The announcement of a clear winner.

Sighs.

“Just wait until the sheriff election, and we’ll see who has the last laugh,” Zelda says.

“It’ll be the third candidate,” Hilda says, half asleep.

“Not if we pool our resources,” Zelda says.

“Dirtiest trick in the book. I like it,” Hilda says.

**Author's Note:**

> Do I know anything about local politics? No. Do I care? Also no.


End file.
